After a demanding first year of college, summer felt like opening the windows after a long winter. There were no exams to study for, no labs to complete—only open highways, good friends, and the wonderful uncertainty of seeing where the next adventure might lead. Summer of 1978 wasn’t just a season. It was a feeling.
It was in the warm summer air, the roar of guitars, the laughter of friends, and the feeling that almost anything was possible. I had graduated from high school just a year earlier and spent my freshman year at Iowa State University studying mechanical engineering. College had been everything I expected—and then some. The coursework was harder, the pace was relentless, and my first-quarter GPA of 2.67 felt like a sucker punch when I opened the envelope. Apparently, high school had neglected to mention that everyone else in engineering had also been near the top of their class.
Fortunately, that first quarter didn’t define me. After meeting with my calculus professor and reviewing my final exam, he agreed to raise my grade from a C to a B, giving my GPA a much-needed boost. More importantly, I finally learned how to study at the college level. By the end of the winter quarter, my cumulative GPA had climbed to 3.25, and after spring quarter it reached 3.43. The freshman who had arrived in Ames thinking he already knew how to succeed was slowly giving way to someone willing to work harder, study smarter, and earn every grade.
I pulled into the driveway on Thursday, May 25th, exhausted after the six-hour drive home. No welcome home breakfast, no big announcement, just the quiet comfort of being back in familiar surroundings.
My plan was simple: sleep. Deep, undisturbed sleep. But life had other plans.
I remember that morning like it was yesterday. I was wrapped in blankets, still in that post–road–trip stupor, when I heard the phone ring. My mom answered — I didn’t know who was on the other end, but I could hear her say, “He’s not available. He’s still sleeping.” Perfect. So I thought. Soon after, someone was knocking at the door. Before I knew it, my friend Doug was in my bedroom, practically shaking me awake.
“Hey! There’s a concert in Milwaukee today. Want to go?”
I don’t remember brushing my teeth, packing a bag, or even fully waking up — I just remember the grin on Doug’s face and the word that came out of my mouth without hesitation:
“Yeah!”
We jumped in the car and headed east. It is about a 2 1/2 hour drive.
May 26th - Jefferson Starship at Milwaukee County Stadium
The gates opened at 1 p.m. at the Milwaukee County Stadium, the music started at 4 p.m., and by midnight, we were worn out — but totally alive. That night, Jefferson Starship was the headliner, and sharing the bill were Nazareth, Foreigner, and Bob Welch. Welch's “Sentimental Lady” and “Ebony Eyes” were two of my favorites back then. I can also still hear the harmonies from Starship's "Runaway" and "Count on Me" as I allow my mind to wander back to that day.
We sat just behind home plate, looking across the diamond toward a massive stage that had been erected in deep center field. The baseball field had disappeared beneath a sea of people. Thousands of fans stretched from the stage all the way to the infield, some standing shoulder to shoulder near the speakers, others stretched out on blankets, laughing with friends, passing around coolers, and soaking up every note. The smell of grilled food mixed with sunscreen and cigarette smoke drifted through the warm evening air. Between songs, waves of cheers rolled across the stadium like thunder before dissolving into the opening chords of the next set. As daylight slowly gave way to dusk, the stadium lights came alive, and Milwaukee County Stadium no longer felt like the home of the Brewers. It had become a giant outdoor living room where twenty thousand strangers gathered for one unforgettable summer night.
Looking back, I realize it wasn't just the music that made those concerts memorable. It was the feeling that anything was possible. We were nineteen years old, surrounded by friends, with no schedules to keep, no careers to build, and no idea what the next few years would bring. For a few glorious hours, life was measured by guitar solos, applause, and the songs echoing into the night sky. That concert became the opening act for a summer filled with road trips, spontaneity, and memories that, nearly fifty years later, still begin playing the moment I hear the first few notes of those songs.
August 2 — Eagles at Milwaukee County Stadium
Two months later, on August 2, we were back at Milwaukee County Stadium for what had to be one of the most iconic tours of the era: the Eagles’ Hotel California tour. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t remember where they were when that album was blasting over radios everywhere. And there I was, right in the middle of it.
The lineup was electric: The Eagles anchored the show with the original members— a constellation of talent that could’ve stopped the heart of anyone within earshot. But that night wasn’t just about the headliners. We also soaked in fantastic performances by the Steve Miller Band and Pablo Cruise, both commanding the stage with unforgettable energy.
The concert stage felt almost cinematic, especially once the sun went down and the stage lights came up to reveal the backdrop—a massive recreation of the Hotel California album cover spread across the outfield like a mural. Seeing that iconic image brought to life, glowing behind the band, was surreal, as if the album itself had stepped off the turntable and into the stadium. And there they were, all together—Don Henley, Glenn Frey, Joe Walsh, Don Felder, and Timothy B. Schmit—an extraordinary collection of talent standing in front of the very artwork that had already become legendary. The music, the visuals, and the sheer presence of that lineup created a moment that felt bigger than a concert; it felt like witnessing a chapter of rock history unfold in real time.
That night was the kind of concert that, even decades later, still sends a tingle down the spine when you think of the chords and lights and the way the music felt bigger than real life.
August 16 — Electric Light Orchestra (ELO) at Dane County Coliseum
If the Eagles concert was iconic, then August 16 was, without a doubt, cosmic. We piled into a van driven by Kevin and headed to Dane County Coliseum. Our destination: Electric Light Orchestra’s Out of the Blue tour. Imagine a spaceship on stage — big, loud, and electric, with lights, lasers, and sound that felt like it was reshaping the room. That fleet of synthesizers and violins and guitars gave off a vibe like we were inside a sci-fi dream rather than a concert hall.
Kevin was probably as excited as any of us — I know he’d been talking about seeing ELO long before the date ever arrived — and we were all there, a knot of friends sharing the wonder that only live music can deliver.
That night, the spaceship wasn’t just a prop. It was a portal — a way into that timeless feeling of total immersion, where reality melts, and all that exists are the notes, the rhythm, and your own heartbeat keeping time.
I sometimes think the soundtrack of that summer wasn't just playing through the speakers at those concerts—it was playing in our lives. Every road trip, every spontaneous "let's go," every mile with the windows down and the radio turned up reminded me that life wasn't meant to be planned down to the last detail. Just a year earlier, I had been sitting beside my mother's hospital bed, unsure what tomorrow would bring. Now tomorrow felt wide open again. The fear that had defined the end of high school had slowly given way to possibility.
Looking back, I realize those concerts were never just about Jefferson Starship, the Eagles, or ELO. They were about discovering who I was becoming. My freshman year at Iowa State had taught me discipline, humility, and perseverance. The summer of 1978 taught me something equally important—that life is richer when you say yes to adventure, treasure good friends, and leave room for the unexpected. I had no idea that the next two years would bring deeper friendships, growing confidence, and an internship nearly two thousand miles from home that would change the course of my life. But if my freshman year had taught me how to survive, that summer reminded me how to live. And it was the perfect bridge between the uncertainty of my first year in college and the remarkable journey that still lay ahead.
